


Who's been sleeping in my bed? Who's been eating off my plate?

by gimmeshellder



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Weather, F/F, Human AU, Past Bispearl, avoidant pixie dream girl Rose Quartz, big UST, milf Pearl rights, one of those real hyperspecific ones tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Pearl doesn't get many visitors.
Relationships: Pearl/Rose Quartz (Steven Universe)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	Who's been sleeping in my bed? Who's been eating off my plate?

**Author's Note:**

> Man I just wanted some quickndirty cheesy smut but then it got all complicated and sad
> 
> BIG THANKS to [ jailor ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jailor) for some tech editing and [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) for beta!

There’s a woman on the porch.

Pearl sees her through the window of the study and blinks several times. She rubs her eyes. Still there. She _just_ slept last night... The woman is in a bright sundress and cardigan, absolutely sopping, huddled as best she can beneath the cover of the portico while still peering into the windows near the foyer. Nothing doing, there: the blinds haven't been open in years.

The woman pounds on the door three times, booming-loud, before she shakes her hand wincingly and hugs her elbows. If Pearl weren’t already staring, the bangs would have unwedged her nose from page 112 of _Bioresource Technology._ Even from this far, Pearl can see as the woman bites the inside of one cheek, dimpling the flesh along her jaw like a freckle on a strawberry.

Pearl blinks again for good measure. She feels strangely dreamy, watching her shiver on the porch. The woman -- she’s young -- turns for a hopeless look back towards the road concealed by the row of trees lining the property. Thunder churns. She turns again to the door, knocking open-palmed this time. “ _Hello?_ ”

The desperation in her voice is what pulls Pearl upright. She nearly sends the coffee mug flying from her desk to the floor as she hurries out, only stumbling to a pause by one of the linen closets for spare towels.

When Pearl heaves the door open, the gush of cold air seems to shrink every inch of her skin. It is _freezing._

The woman whips back, eyes wide (she was turned to the road again) and breaks into a relieved smile. "I’m so sorry --”

“Come in!” Too loud. Pearl winces at herself. But she doesn’t need telling twice. The woman ducks her head and hustles past -- she’s _tall_ \-- eyeing the foyer floor for the best place to stand as Pearl wrestles the door shut again.

She _is_ tall. Pearl, who’s rangy enough that she can often spy other people’s grey roots, comes just past her nose. The woman rubs her arms and shudders again. She smiles uneasily at the tile. Then to Pearl. “Oh... it’s warm.”

Pearl starts. _Wake up._ She rushes forward with the towels. “Here --”

“Thank you --”

“-- _awful_ out, I’m so sorry --”

“No umbrella!” She laughs. Muffled behind the towel as she mops her face. Licks of hair, darkened with water, cling to the soft curve of her neck. “And no raincoat... serves me right...”

Doesn’t seem like a wreck. No injuries, no shakes. Maybe her car’s slipped into one of the many ditches. “Did you lose traction on the road?”

“Almost.” She swipes a bang sticking to her eyelashes, but misses -- she gets it on the second try with a sigh. “I was fine until the alternator… I should have gotten it fixed with the oil change...” She mutters to herself as she swabs at the worst of it. Little trickles of water trailing from the bottom of her sundress drip steadily to the tile. The material clings. “Sorry about the floor.”

Pearl clears her throat. “Please don’t worry about it.” It’s distracting. “Do you need the phone?”

“And my _phone --_ ” she huffs. It’s the humid, crumbly kind, like the prelude to a crying fit. "It was on 3 percent, and then I dropped it in a puddle trying to call a tow service." She stares off into the parlor. The furniture is still ghosted with dust sheets. She laughs again, once, papery. "Serves me right."

Pearl shifts her weight; it brings the woman’s attention back. She blinks. "Um, sorry. Any chance I could use yours to call real quick?” She adds, hasty, “And then I can wait for them in the car.”

“What! _No,_ that’s silly!” The woman’s eyebrows pull up. _Inside voice._ Come on, now. Pearl’s mouth opens, closes. “I mean, please… um, please stay inside. I can get you something dry to... just a moment.”

She leaves the woman alone in the foyer to continue toweling off, and sweeps down the hall. Pearl isn’t even certain where she’s headed. Her closet? Nothing of hers would fit.

She waits until she’s out of sight in the kitchen to pause, racking her brain. A robe? Robes are easy. The closet near the back patio, by the long-shuttered pool. Pearl finds the one that Bis must have used. She gives it a fussy dusting with her hands, and a testing sniff. Just a bit stale. Fine enough. Supple, good texture, size should work. She makes certain the belt is securely looped in before she tucks the robe into her elbow, and noses through the rest of the closet.

… pajama bottoms? Nice-ish flannel ones. Hell, why not. Her guest can eschew if she likes. Pearl shakes them out to check for any debris or strange discoloration -- or, god forbid, spiders. And a pair of slippers, too. Even if they’re a turgid purple. Blegh.

Pearl stutters to a stop before one of the hall mirrors. Good God. Like some deranged movie scientist. A quick finger-comb mostly adjusts her hair, stuck up in places from raking distracted fistfuls in the study. She looks dazed. Like _she’s_ the one scuttling in from car trouble. Thirty years too late to help the dark lines under her eyes, but is her breath alright? She puffs into her palm once, sniffs. Too much coffee. Dammit.

Her guest is taking in the portraits in the foyer when Pearl turns the corner again. Hands clasped, wet towels draped. Rainwater has collected in a little puddle at her feet but some moisture tracks around, too, perhaps from pacing. She notices Pearl noticing. “I’m sorry about the floor,” she says, again.

“Please don’t worry about it.” To hell with the floor. “Also --” She clears her throat. Firms her posture, chin high. Handshake? Better not. Her hand twitches, though. “Also, I’m Pearl.”

“... I’m Rose.” It’s an odd smile. But this one reaches her eyes. “Thanks for the help. Is that for me?”

Oh. Yes. Pearl hands the things over. “They’re all clean, just not used often. Um, I can give what you’re wearing a wash and dry.”

Rose nods, a little too deeply. She looks around. “Is there a good place… should I change out here?”

“Um, there’s a… a half bathroom, right here on the left. Please take your time. I can make some tea? Coffee?”

"Oh, God, _anything_ hot," she gushes and sighs, fullbody. The tender shape of her shoulders slopes as she does. It’s flattering. Rose follows the hall, and nudges the door open. “Thank you so much. Right here?”

“Yes, right in. Uh, oh -- there’s -- plastic bags under the sink. For your clothes.” Technically for the wastebasket, but. Pearl clears her throat quietly. “If you just bring them out, I can throw them in the wash.”

“Thank you.” Rose smiles, and Pearl smiles back. She’s still smiling even once the door is closed.

“... ah, kitchen is straight down the hall!” Pearl’s voice rises to carry through the wood of the door. _That’s_ fine, right? “Whenever you’re ready!”

The hall mirror catches her eye again on the trip back. She’s flushed. Dammit. Calm down.

She futzes with the kitchen island, stowing some junk mail in the tool drawer. Nothing else is out of place. For all that Pearl ignores most of the house, she keeps the study and the kitchen very neat. She casts her eye around the counters just to… hm… the fruitbowl. One of the apples has browned. Pearl puckers. She plucks it from the bowl and stashes it in the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. It could make a nice compote later.

Jasmine? Oolong? Pearl’s had too much coffee as it is. _Her breath_ \-- she digs into one of the utility drawers in the island to find a pack of spearmint gum, leftover from centuries past. She chews a stale piece quietly. Blegh. Then spits it into the garbage as the electric kettle grumbles.

When’s the last she’s had another woman over? Or been to hers? … or anyone’s? Pearl hisses a little laugh. _Calm down._ She’s caught offguard, is all. Flatfooted. She’s in research mode, and out of practice being sociable. It’s been over a year since any human’s come closer than a grocery cashier.

And she’s beautiful. Younger than Pearl, that's for certain. Marvelous voice. Deep, sweet brown eyes. Pearl loves brown eyes.

The hot water clicks off; Pearl blinks. She has to double back when habit guides her hand to tea for one.

It’s nearly finished steeping when Rose steps into the kitchen. The robe is a little short on her but it’s tied securely at the hip. And yes, she opted for the flannel pajama bottoms. The slippers seem to fit, too. Good.

“So warm in here.” It comes out a fond sigh. But she still rubs her hands together.

“Let me know if you’d like the heat higher.” Pearl smiles over her shoulder, and wins one back. “Milk or sugar? Honey? … lemon?”

“Sugar’s wonderful.” She takes in the kitchen’s high ceilings and vaulted windows. Shame. The courtyard outside was muggy, wintry sludge even before all the rain. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I interrupted anything --”

“Not at all.” That should be clear enough. Does Pearl seem annoyed? If she relaxes more maybe Rose will, too. She tries to unbunch her shoulders. “Please -- “ though she _is_ starting to feel like a receptionist, “ -- make yourself comfortable.”

But she didn’t _specify_ where Rose should make herself comfortable, so. It should be no surprise when she takes Pearl’s preferred spot at the very end of the table. It’s the best one, of course. Perfect height, optimal surface area for articles and binders on a working lunch, plenty of sun from mid-morning to mid-afternoon. And the seat is worn just right.

But she can forfeit it to a guest. Rose settles into the chair like she’s afraid to do it wrong, watching the courtyard through the window. “I bet it’s nice in the summer.”

“Certainly nicer.” Pearl pauses the tea to set a sandwich bag with silica packets on the table. Rose blinks at it. “For your cellphone,” Pearl says, and Rose bonks her head with the heel of her palm.

“Oh! Duh! Good idea. Oh, but I could just… I mean, I could just use rice. I don’t wanna use up your…” She turns the bag, squinting at the labels.

Hmmm. Pearl shakes her head. “That doesn’t actually work very well. Legitimate desiccant is more effective.”

Rose grins. It’s a little tepid. She pulls her phone from the robe pocket: older model, big and clunky. Rose hands it over. It certainly feels waterlogged. “I woke up with it at 18%… I think my charger is fritzing.”

“I used to have one of these.” Years ago. It’s the kind that can take a beating. “I think I still have the charger.” In the Drawer of Mysteries. Just like the silica packets.

“Whaaa… what kind of superpowers do you have, here?”

Pearl smiles small. She borrows one of the wisecracks from Bis. “Just a slight hoarding tendency.”

Rose laughs, sheepish. "Thanks again.” She tucks a sliver of hair behind her ear. Wisps are drying near her brow, curled like cedar shavings. “Once it's juiced I can just call the closest tow shop."

Hm. About that. “How far is your car?”

Her head bobs side-to-side, weighing. More relaxed, now. “... quarter mile?” She jabs her chin at at an angle, towards the road. “Maybe a little more.”

Oh, no. Still in the sticks, then. Pearl… smiles thin. "You can call,” she says slowly. “But I doubt they’ll chance it in all this right now."

For the first time since entering the house, there’s a tang of sincere panic in Rose’s voice. “What do you mean?” It stings to hear. “What -- just from rain?”

“The rain wouldn’t be an issue if not for the roads… you saw them.” Cowpaths, practically, all different dips and widths. Like a child’s treasure map. Pearl loves that it cuts down on idle traffic and noise, but there’s at least one or two passing tourists a year that she spots in the ditches. “Very tricky for something heavy as a towtruck.”

The soft lines of Rose’s face come together differently. Just for a moment. She stares at the pile of white packets hiding her phone, breath slowing. “Well… that’s too bad.” She smiles ruefully, but Pearl catches her glance around the room. It’s anxious. “How do you manage it out here?”

“The rain is unpredictable but it _is_ seasonal.” Pearl’s mostly found the rhythm. She knows when to stock up. “And,” her hand flaps wide, like a matador’s, and she gives a tense little laugh, “I have nowhere to be.”

Rose says nothing. Pearl… well. Pearl tries for another laugh. It almost happens.

A gust sucks rattlingly at the windows. They both look up. The wind pours on strong enough that the treetops bend beneath it all, and Rose watches, cheek dimpled where she must be chewing.

"It’s really no trouble." Pearl turns back to the kitchen island for the mugs, teapot, sugar. “You can stay as long as you need.”

She might fiddle a little longer than necessary. Just to give her a moment.

Rose is gazing blankly at the bag of silica again when Pearl turns back, but looks up bright-eyed at the tea accoutrements -- she even makes a little ‘ooh’ of delight when Pearl pours and stirs tableside. Rose’s hands go straight for the mug when it’s in reach: her fingers curve, her eyes close and she slips a long, delighted moan at the heat. “Ohhh, my _God._ ”

Pearl doesn’t hide her smile. She pours her own cup, and transfers the bags from the pot to a saucer to keep from oversteeping. Rose takes her first testing sip as Pearl takes the adjacent seat, and the strain seems to melt out of the younger woman’s body: Pearl can nearly hear the muscles relax with each exhale as Rose sighs behind her mug. So soothing to see.

Pearl gives her a few moments to enjoy. “Where were you headed?”

Rose shifts in the chair, and blows idly on the mug propped before her face. “Just trying to visit a friend. I think I got a little lost…” She takes another tiny, cautious sip. “I usually take the 96. You have a beautiful home.” Before Pearl can respond, she adds, “How long have you lived here?”

“It’s… oh. Seven years, now? It’s not really mine,” Pearl rushes, “it’s in a sort of legal trust. A friend of a friend’s. More of a… ah, extended housesitting situation.”

“Oh wow, what a gig.”

“It works out well enough.” The house is too big to maintain on the whole. But Pearl keeps an eye on things, and makes sure it doesn’t burn to a cinder, or become overrun by a colony of voles. And she gets a lot of privacy to work on projects. “I didn’t intend to be here this long, really, but it’s been a great way to get work done.”

“Is that how you know your friend?”

“Mm… almost.” Pearl scrubs a hand over her mouth, smiling. Technically _yes._ “Bis helped me transition from my previous field... I was an aerospace engineer, right out of school.”

Her eyebrows go up. “And that was helpful of her?”

“In the big picture, yes. I designed aircraft. I loved the work, and the process… and never really thought that hard about what was done with it.”

Pearl _did_ love it. She loved the feast and famine of a project deadline, loved sifting through supposedly doomed specs of space, time, and constraints of design and squeezing the blood from the stones. She loved the acid triumph that came with beating out a colleague that sold her short for being the only woman in the room.

It felt _good._ But then she met Bis.

“... as it turned out, most of our funding came from defense contracts.” Which Pearl _knew,_ she just… hadn’t thought very hard about it. “Bis helped me with that. ‘What good’s your most brilliant idea if it ends up dropping bombs?’”

“I’m glad she helped you out, then.” Her voice has gone soft. “What do you do now?”

Ah, well. Pearl’s chin lifts and she straightens. “Thankfully there’s a lot of crossover into sustainable energy.”

Rose’s eyebrows go up, lightbulbed. “Any chance you work on the…?” Her hand whirls and Pearl nods, grinning. “Oh, I love it! I saw whole fields of them, coming in.”

“This region’s not really known for its wind-generated output but it _could_ be, and without compromising any of the forestry.” The house is a perfect fit in that respect. In the off season, Pearl can hole up to research and draft, and when it warms up she can tend to the practicals at the testing facility 40 minutes out. “It’s been coming along, at least.” As long as she doesn’t jinx it.

“That’s _amazing!_ ”

“It’s good to keep busy.” Pearl tries not to look too pleased with herself. “What about you?”

Rose hums, eyebrows high. She brings the mug to her mouth again.

“What do you do?”

“Mm…” She runs her tongue over the corner of her lips. “Just trying to stay occupied.” The mug _clunks_ as she sets it down. She scoops another spoonful of sugar and stirs. “I’m kind of between things at the moment.”

Pearl nods. Slowly. Sore topic, then.

But Rose glides in before awkwardness can: she launches into a summary of the local storytelling radio station that she heard on the way down, before the weather turned on her. Relaxed, again. From the tea. Good. Pearl listens, and leans; Rose radiates her own kind of novel warmth that Pearl has a difficult time pulling away from. Can smell her even under the rainwater. Over the tea.

Rose is brightly recounting a ‘surprise alpaca farm’ that she stopped at for pictures when she crosses one thigh over the other: it brushes a singeing line of contact against Pearl’s leg through her slacks, sparking like raw circuitry.

"Sorry." Dammit. Pearl shifts away, stomach reeling. "I'm crowding you."

"You're not! It's your own kitchen." She laughs and looks away. “Or surrogate kitchen, whatever. You should be comfortable."

Surrogate kitchen. Pearl smiles. Bis would like that.

Pearl checks the clock after her third cup without really reading it. She’s near buzzing out of her skin. Overcaffeinated. She feels like an open nerve. "Are you hungry? It’s…” She checks again. They’ve talked almost an hour.

Rose makes a pitying sound. The hair along her temples has dried in little vanilla-bean filaments. "Gosh, you're really sweet. You’ve already been so nice, I don't --"

"I was about to start on dinner anyway. No trouble at all." It's sort of true. Pearl doesn't operate on much of a set rhythm when she’s in project mode, but it’s as good a mealtime as any. “Do you -- ah, do you have any dietary restrictions?”

Rose gives a smile. Amused, maybe. “You’re so thorough." _Definitely_ amused. “But nope! I’m pure omnivore. Thanks for checking.”

“I’ll put these dishes away and get started then. You should…” Pearl coughs into her hand. “Would you like a shower?" That sounds better than _You should shower._ Should have offered earlier, really.

“Oh, my god, that sounds _amazing._ ” Rose's whole body slumps like a sigh a second time, propped on the table. The neck of the robe gaps. “Is that really okay? I don’t have anything for… fuck, of course I left everything in the car --"

“Help… help yourself to anything you need. There’s shampoo and conditioner, and soaps and…” Pearl herself doesn’t use much of it. Just her own three-in-one with tea tree oil. Can all those fiddly scrubs and things expire? “There…. the cupboards have things to wash with and pumice stones… I don’t know,” Pearl’s hand flaps, useless, “it’s all there... just make sure to check the labels, I suppose. Oh, and you’ll want to use the master bathroom upstairs.”

“Ooh, the _master bathroom._ ” Rose shimmies one shoulder and dips behind her mug for another sip. It sounds so musical and playful, but she watches Pearl through the side of her eye, uncertain.

That probably _did_ sound strange.

“You don’t need to,” Pearl adds, “it’s just the nicest one. There’s a shower in the back, closer to the pool, but --” but Pearl hasn’t done much to clean it in eons, “-- um, the hot water is much slower --”

“No, no, I’m just teasing.” She’s smiling again. Mostly. “I just hope it’s easy to use? Everyone’s a genius until they have to figure out a new shower."

“... it’s simple enough.”

“I don’t know if engineers get a say.” She grins tightly. “Have pity if I need a demo.”

Is this… this can’t be flirting. Right? Pearl’s _really_ out of practice.

She gives Rose directions -- up the stairs, take a left, second door on the right -- and watches her leave the kitchen from her periphery while she clears the tea things. The sugar dish back on the counter. Spoons in the sink. She scoops up both mugs, one-handed. The clink they make sits ringing in the roof of her mouth, and Pearl has to wet her lips to clear it.

She pushes the chair in. Rose’s long hair has left little freckles of rainwater along the wood. She brushes them away, unthinking, and finds the backrest is still warm.

Oh; Pearl wavers.

She holds her hand, there. Against the seat. She feels her eyes close.

… she swallows, once, hard.

Then she turns, and -- she finishes clearing the tea.

She’s just loaded the wet sundress into the washer when she realizes Rose took the towel. The _already wet_ towel. There are none dry in the bathroom, because -- well! It’s not like she expected guests! Pearl normally just has two or three in rotation, and hasn’t yet transferred her backup from the folding table. She hustles to grab another proper dry one from the linen closet, along with a washcloth, and… oh, well, there’s the stockpile of toothbrushes, thanks to Pearl’s religiously changing them out, may as well…

When she clears her throat outside the door to the master bathroom, her brain faceplants. She hesitates. "... miss Rose?" Winces.

The door fails to block a breathless laugh. Pearl’s neck goes hot. "Yes, Miss Pearl?"

“You... shouldn't use that same towel. It's already wet." She knocks? For some reason? A quick couple raps of polite, delayed habit. "Here are some fresh --"

The door opens. Rose peeks through the crack, backlit by the tile. She is already nude. A perfect cakeslice of skin just past her collar is visible in the sliver between door and frame.

She looks as shocked as Pearl must.

"H… here." Pearl passes the things through the gap, eyes high. And Rose takes them. Pearl’s voice croaks. "Help yourself t… to anything."

Rose won’t quite meet her eye either. She smiles. Tight, like fishing line. “Thank you.”

Then the door eases closed.

Pearl steps back, dizzied. She feels a headrush coming on. The light leading from beneath the door shifts -- and the glass door to the shower rattles, opened. And the pipes grumble in the wall as the water rushes on… and the glass door slides closed again.

Genius enough, then.

What was that? Why was _she_ surprised? Rose didn’t have to open that fast. It was just Pearl with a damned delay of manners.

Mouth dry. Pearl lets go of breath she must have been holding. It didn’t seem to be with her, earlier.

Was it Pearl’s expression? Did she look upset? Pearl felt the stretch of shock on her own face, yes. Rose didn’t even throw her robe back on. That’s what robes are _for._

“Stupid,” Pearl mutters to the hall. Not about Rose. Or herself. But yes, actually, maybe the both, a little. The confusion of the moment. Rose’s skin was still bitten pink from the freezing rain. Pearl should have offered a shower sooner. She’ll warm up under the water -- be more relaxed, hopefully. Steam peeling off of her in plumes. Chin tipped back on a drinking sigh.

The back of her neck itches. Pearl scrubs the hot skin, there, the downy hairs. Dammit. She needs a trim.

_“Who you gonna cook for? The gophers?”_

Bis had her square on that one. Pearl _does_ miss cooking. Or just having an audience to show off for, at least, a little cause to peacock in the kitchen. None such lately. For herself she tends to make large, simple, tasty batches of anything macronutritionally balanced that doesn't require much thought to reheat. Bonus points if she can get it down one-handed while poring over reports.

This week: a creamy chicken and mushroom soup. Pearl loads hers down with onion, carrots, kale, garlic, rosemary, thyme -- as much as she can scoop up in season from the local market. The soup is from only a couple days ago and should taste fresh once it's piping hot again. Maybe a little cracked pepper. Rough-chop some parsley on top to brighten things. Not too rich, but plenty comforting.

Ooh, it could go with one of the crusty French loaves, frozen half-baked awhile back. Pearl inspects it for any patches of freezer burn. Lucky. And ooh, a fingertip goes to her chin, tapping: what about candles?

She feels, abruptly, ridiculous. Like some wormy-scruffy kid on a first date. Or like she’s running a seduction.

“Don’t be silly,” she chides the silverware drawer, sorting spoons. No; no, candles don’t have to be seductive. Candles can provide light and warmth in a variety of contexts. They are perfectly acceptable when it’s hideous weather like this. _One_ candle. The stout, specialty-scented kind. Winter spice, or harvest time, or... or whatever. Those have no overt tones. Right? At least they didn’t the last time Pearl bothered to think about lighting candles.

She dusts her hands on her thighs after setting the French loaf on a baking sheet, and sets the oven to preheat. And pauses. Oh... _fine._ She opens the rarely touched utility cabinet. Why not? She pokes aside boxes of Bis’s incense sticks, a pack of 9 volt batteries, matching flashlight… clunky powerdrill from the 80s… and yes: an old hokey candle entitled _Autumn Vision_.

Pearl pops the lid off for an inspecting sniff -- _blech_. That can stay _another_ seven years.

… there is also a simple candelabra. And matching candles, long and slim. Dusty. Wiped clean with a soft cloth, they would be lush and pale as brie.

… Pearl does linger.

She has discipline. She does. Pearl doesn’t shirk from a task that demands going without, and she’s certainly no stranger to self-denial. But in the past years, Pearl’s developed a small, richly quiet fantasy life. Sometimes a replay of some old hungry evening helped to keep the bed warm. Or a favorite erotic novel, carefully dog-eared. Or a passing fancy after a visit to the farmer’s market, stood not-quite-to-the-shoulder of a woman with soft hands, inspecting peaches. Nothing extravagant.

… maybe a teensy bit extravagant. Dammit, Pearl is _creative._ There’s nothing wrong with some invention.

But she’s never risked overmixing, so to speak. Fantasies never came knocking. The woman with the peaches never materialized before the front door, sundress clinging.

“Oh, come on,” Pearl mutters to the stovetop, setting the soup to warm. Heat pours from the eye. Pearl bites her lip, watching the low glow of it. Reheated leftovers. Tsk. With even an hour more, she could have made something proper and impressive… Oh, but there _is_ breakfast. Maybe crepes with honey and ricotta. Some toasted walnuts, for texture. Silky French-pressed coffee nestled dark as jewels in ceramic mugs... sunlight through the steam... soft eyes across the table... there's really nothing like preparing that very first breakfast.

 _Not your lover,_ a stern voice slices clean through the fantasy. Pearl recoils.

“Would you get a _grip?_ ” The utility cabinet, left ajar, shuts crackingly under Pearl’s hand. The poor girl just wants to pass through. Off to visit a friend. Stressed about the auto bill. Normal things that should go comparatively without incident. This isn’t the time for Pearl to go knock-kneed on a stranger. Or rekindle her hedonist 20’s.

… although. Although, were someone of the mind to sow some wild oats… Pearl can’t say she would turn her down.

A pang through her belly. Like some old, rusted muscle. It’s not exactly pleasant.

"You creep," she mutters aloud. "You absolute bastard. Get it together." Seething at the pot of soup. It’s very near a simmer. Pearl can keep herself company tonight, and hell, dust off her most discreet vibrator. She should take better care of these things.

Pearl is briefly considering a change into a fresher button-up when she hears Rose pad down the staircase.

“Is it okay if I bring this in here?” She’s carrying the third towel. Her step stutters. "Oh, wow -- smells amazing."

“Of course.” Pearl stays turned to the counter, pretending to chop the already chopped parsley. Rose’s hair must take forever to dry. She’s back in the robe, but not the pajama bottoms. Too warm maybe. The fine curves of her calves flex as she -- Pearl’s ribs gnaw against each other as she forces her up eyes upward. "Please sit. I’ll set the table.”

Rose watches a little sideways as Pearl sets down their bowls, steaming hot, and the bread cut in rustic slices. “I feel like a princess,” Rose titters, watery.

“It’s nothing fancy.”

Pearl’s taken her seat and smoothed her napkin over her lap when she sees Rose still watching her. Just from the corner of her eye. She pretends to fidget with her silverware and napkin, too, but yes… she’s definitely watching.

Is she waiting for Pearl to start first? Or... say grace? Pearl hasn’t said grace in her life, ever. It’s a funny thought. She smiles, stomach flipflopping, and takes her first spoonful. She doesn’t quite taste it. But she tries. (It _is_ good soup.)

Rose takes the cue. She blows on her on spoon, gauging temperature, and then takes a bite. “... oh, wow.”

“Do you like it?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Savoring. Even after tea, even after a shower, the heat must feel decadent. Bonedeep cold takes so long to leave. “It’s _so good.”_ Her eyes drift as she enjoys. Behind pursed lips, her tongue moves softly, over her teeth, along her cheek, hunting. “You’ve put _something_ in there… what is it…”

Pearl knows exactly what she means. She smiles behind her spoon.

“Kind of sweet? Not balsamic…” She takes another spoonful, eyebrows pulled down in an adorable furrow. “Ugh, Jesus, that’s good. Some kind of citrus?”

“Just a little lemongrass.”

Rose’s hand slaps gently on the table in her mock exasperation. “It _reminded_ me of good tom kha! But there’s… wait.” She goes back for another taste. “No coconut milk, though?”

Ooh. Hm. “...no. But that's a good idea for next time.” She catches the quirk of a smile. “Do you like to cook?”

They chat. It’s easy, and marvelous. Rose enjoys baking but can’t be trusted to cook: she tells Pearl about her bad habit of letting water boil so long that it evaporates off. “If you ever need a little ego check,” she mock-soliloquizes, low as a portent, “cleaning egg bits of the backsplash is a good start.”

At one point Rose delicately tears little mouthfuls from around the crust to eat on their own as Pearl tells about her brief stint as a sous chef overseas -- Bis was with her, that time. Pearl’s warm. She laughs a lot, for her.

It _does_ feel a little like a date. It should be alright to let herself indulge that quiet feeling. Just a bit. Harmless.

When they’re near the bottom of their bowls, they give resurrecting Rose’s phone a shot. Pearl fetches her old charger and plugs it into the near socket, and Rose gives a grinning cheer when it boots.

(“Take the charger with you.”

“Oh, what the fuck? You’re too nice, I can’t --”

“I’m not using it.” The sole escapee of the Drawer of Mysteries.)

Rose excitedly flips through her phone -- probably checking all the functions -- but glances up sharply at the sound of the cork. Pearl doesn’t drink often, herself, but it seems hospitable. And timely. And a waste, otherwise: the untouched bottles stowed under the island could probably take chunks out of Pearl’s paychecks. Chardonnay should fit well. Not too overpowering after the soup.

She asks, "Would you like a glass?" and begins the painstaking act of making certain none of it strays as she pours. For some reason she always seems to under- or overestimate the viscosity, leaving idle drops around the rim. Not that anyone else has ever seemed to notice them, but… lucky this time.

Pearl realizes Rose hasn’t answered. She looks over to her guest at the table.

“... sure.” The phone shields most of her expression. “I’ll have some.”

She watches Pearl pour another glass (extra carefully) and sets the phone aside as Pearl carries them back over. “Do you… does your… partner ever visit?”

“Bis?” Pearl swallows a wince; she can’t help a chuckle. “It’s not quite like that. Bis is a friend.” And ex-fiancée. And co-conspirator, comrade, ally. Pearl’s eternal partner in crime. “A very good friend.”

“A very good friend who never visits,” Rose notes.

… well. Pearl shrugs, and waves a hand at the kitchen. “She disapproves of my current living arrangement. She says I’ve been out here too long… and she’s entitled to her opinion.” Pearl feels herself frown. She carefully turns the base of the glass, like some toothless gear. “She wishes I would come back to the city.” Thinks Pearl is hiding from something. Thinks she’s avoiding. “Thinks it would be better for me.”

“If she doesn’t visit because of that, she sounds stubborn.”

That’s not _wrong._ “I haven’t visited in awhile, myself.” Pearl takes her first taste of the wine. Warming. She gives a little hiccuping laugh. “I suppose we’re both stubborn old biddies.”

A pause between them. Pearl watches the grain in the table for a moment before Rose asks, “Why did you want to stay here?”

Hmm.

“...too distracting.” Bis just draws people to herself. Pearl included. It was always wonderful, but… too much. “Originally I was only staying temporarily. A couple years at the most. But as it turned out, I really appreciated the privacy.“

Bis had cajoled, sulked, argued, but still did everything in her power to help with keeping the arrangements. To get Pearl where she chose. “We don’t agree on everything, but we trust each other. Even if Bis doesn’t understand, she’s never tried to keep me from doing what I’d like here.” Pearl will always love her for that.

She watches the woodgrain a moment more. Twiddling her glass. She’s smiling, yes. Pearl looks back up: Rose is leaned at the hip, hanging onto every word. She’s propped her cheek with one hand and watches soft-eyed, lips parted. “That’s so sweet,” she whispers, voice frosted with feeling.

(Pearl’s stomach lurches: like she missed a step.) She gasps a little laugh and shifts, suddenly itching. “I feel very lucky, you know -- we do what we can.” She hides behind a sip. Then makes a face. “You have a talent for getting me talking. What about you? Where are you from?”

Rose blinks a few times. Like she’s collecting herself. She sits up again, swirling her glass. “Well…”

She starts by describing the previous leg of her trip, shoreside, where she found a hostel packed with tourist families. Rose had more fun with them than she did on the beach. Her face glows recounting a little girl who taught her mancala in the breakfast nook at 6 a.m. when everyone else was asleep. And then the trip that brought her to the hostel, when she watched some gutted-out Volkswagen flip a penny out the driver’s side window on the highway, cracking the windshield of the tailgater behind them. But she never actually answers.

It occurs to Pearl, halfway to bringing the bottle to the table to refill, that she knows nothing about her guest.

Rose doesn’t protest a second glass. The pink is higher in her cheeks, now -- she's a little louder, too, a little quicker to laugh. She’s giggling her way through some comedy of errors conversation with a gas station attendant that she saved in the notes on her phone when she catches a look at the wine bottle label.

“Oh, my God, fucking Mont Cachet?” She makes a squelchy sound from the side of her cheek.

Oh, no. “You don’t like it?”

Rose rolls her eyes. “It tastes _fine_ but isn't it _disgusting_ expensive? Like hundreds of…” She freezes.

"Oh, you're familiar with it?”

Quiet. For a long while. But Rose thaws. "... my sister liked it."

Pearl waits for more. "... she has some high brow tastes."

"Mm."

Quiet. Rain patters on the glass. It’s the first that Pearl’s heard it in hours. She shifts. "... where does she live?"

"We don't keep in touch.” Rose sets her glass down, a little loud. “Oh! Here’s the alpacas -- my camera sucks but this one was _so_ cute, look…”

And that’s that. Pearl doesn’t push. They look through some of the photos on Rose’s phone, mostly accompanied by a story or funny piece of conversation she exchanged. It’s mostly fine. Whatever strange tension that came up earlier dissolves by the time Pearl comments on one of the dams she documented, and Rose listens intently, nursing her glass.

Towards the bottom of the bottle, they are both warm and bubbling giggles.

“... and then I left.” Rose’s hand goes to her mouth and she snorts. “He was _pissed!”_

“What a schmuck. And you even footed the bill after all that?” Pearl rubs her temple but she’s grinning, too.

Rose hums and nods, cartoonish almost, _mm-HM._ “Worth the overdraft fee.”

“You should have stuck him with the whole thing instead of a favor like that.”

“The favor was all for me!” Rose tucks the corner of her lip between her teeth, grinning down at the table. “Paying for peace of mind.” The wine has her flushed even higher in her cheeks. Bitten pink again -- by warmth this time. “I don't like to owe anyone anything."

_Oh._

Pearl almost jerks upright. She didn’t realize she was slouching. “You never called your friend.”

Rose blinks behind another sip, still all smiles. “Mm?”

“The friend you’re visiting.” Pearl checks the clock: well past 9. “They must be worried out of their mind.”

When she looks back, Rose’s eyes are frozen wide. Phone in hand. "Oh.” She draws back from the table by an inch. “I…"

It takes Pearl an entire three seconds longer to realize she’s caught Rose in a lie. Which… God, yes, of course she did. Would lie. In a stranger’s home? It’s only smart.

Pearl wets her lips.

“... uh, but I’m sure they know you’re resourceful. _I_ can tell that.” She needs a prop. She reaches to cork the wine bottle and turn it, label facing out. “I'm sure they know you’re fine.”

Rose stares. Her face hasn’t shifted much, but the skin around her eyes is tight.

… Pearl taps her fingers on the tabletop. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m glad the date makes for a funny story to tell, anyway.”

The silence rings. Rose does not take the cue.

Pearl looks away. Dammit. Her fingers play with the stem of her glass. She has another couple sips left, maybe three. She puts it back in one mouthful and lets the heat bloom. Why is _she_ anxious? It wasn’t Pearl’s lie. But she needs something to chase off the quiet. She blurts, "Do you date only men?" Shit.

Rose doesn’t move for a moment. Then her lips curve, like a cat’s tail. "No," she starts, slow, "I date lots of people.” Her glance flickers to Pearl’s fingers on the winestem. Her eyes are cool. “But I mostly just sleep with them.”

_Shit._

It’s like some special hydrovac sucks out every drop of alcohol from Pearl’s body. She is immediately sober. She stares, jaw soft at the hinges, and Rose gazes back. Almost… almost daring her.

Is that what that is? A dare? Pearl closes her mouth. So strange.

“Well.” She clears her throat. A little gummy. “I’m certain that simplifies things.”

“You’d think.” It's wistful. Maybe testing.

Pearl is careful. She lets her chin pull back, frowning thoughtfully at the ceiling. Alright. Alright. Some kind of.... game of chicken. “That’s such a strange way to phrase it. ‘Sleeping with someone'... It sounds so cozy and sweet.”

Rose mock-scoffs. “It can be plenty cozy and sweet.”

Pearl mocks her mock-scoff. “Well, it’s also awkward linguistically. I'm sure there've been plenty of embarrassing translation errors.” She feels mostly settled. Relaxing again. But Pearl clears her throat, quiet. “It’s a very low leverage turn of phrase.”

“You’ve got a teensy old-fashioned streak, huh?” The guarded look is mostly gone. When her head tilts, Rose looks damn near fond. “That’s so cute.”

Pearl in her teens or 20’s would have gone scarlet, and had her tongue nailed to her teeth. Pearl now only gets an itch along the back of her neck.

“Old-fashioned? Fie.” That surprises a giggle from Rose. “How old are _you_ to be casting such aspersions?”

“If you want to card me for the wine, it’s too late!” Rose open-hand _slap!_ s the table in her earlier animation -- she even _bwahaha!_ s like a cartoon villain -- and Pearl grins, God, what a goofball. Rose smothers another laugh in the back of her mouth, getting a hold of herself. There’s still a hint of a giggle when she says, “I’ll be 26 in April, but I don’t judge old-timeyness.” Her face is soft again. “It’s cute.”

So young. Young _er,_ Pearl knew. But not by so much. That makes things easier. Some tension leaves Pearl; her shoulders soften.

Quiet between them. The thermostat clunks into a higher gear, somewhere in the ventilation, and Rose’s expression turns watchful again. "... You’re supposed to say how old you are, now.”

Pearls lips quirk. It feels wry. “I turned 42 in December.”

“... what?" Rose stares. Then shakes her head, with a laugh. "No. Nope! Nooo way.” Pearl’s eyebrow rises while Rose stares -- but recovers. Her head shakes again. “There’s a joke in there somewhere,” she titters. “I’m only off by a month.” What? Rose just forces another laugh -- she shifts in her seat. But then her face dims, and she’s quieter. “You seem younger.”

Oh? "How’s that?" Pearl’s not sure how to take it.

"You don't… mmfff." She sucks the inside of one cheek, frowning. Then airbrushes touches over her face, her eyes. "No wrinkles."

"I do too have wrinkles,” Pearl tuts, mock indignant.

"Uh, _barely!_ It's… okay, you got the frowny ones, but…"

“Are all your compliments back-handed?” Pearl’s smiling now. Rose flusters.

“You…” She wets her bottom lip. Watching the woodgrain. When she meets Pearl’s eyes again, it’s in all earnest. “You look like you don't smile much."

Alright; that’s worth a chuckle. Pearl gestures to the grin, pulled even higher now. _Exhibit A._ "It feels like I've been smiling all night."

"... yeah." Small voice. Almost queasy. Rose looks… it’s hard to say. It’s a new expression on her this evening.

Quiet comes again. But more comfortable, this time. The storm’s lulled. That’s good. The sooner the rain stops, the sooner the road firms up. Hell, Pearl might be able to fix the alternator herself, as long as the whole part doesn’t need changing. She mostly steers clear of the workshop space in the colder months, but she could --

"I haven't been with another woman in awhile," Rose says quietly. Pearl’s stomach bottoms out. Her lungs crush. Rose watches the chewed-up back of her phone, flat on the table... but she meets Pearl’s stare up through her lashes like underbrush.

Pearl in her 20's would have flushed to her nailbeds. Pearl might, now. She swallows hard.

"... you're supposed to answer next."

"I…” Should have gotten water. The wine sticks in her mouth like burrs. “No." Pearl swallows. She watches Rose’s hands on the table. "Not in awhile."

"Years?” Her fingers curl in like the rough draft of a fist.

Pearl takes in air. This is the feeling, in the study. When she’s researching, drafting. When she feels the balance is off on paper. In her head. A sort of tickle between her collarbones that says: _Something is wrong._ No matter how many hours spent pursuing a line of thought, no matter how tempting the draw of the sunk cost fallacy, listening to that feeling has always saved her.

Pearl asks, gentle: "What is this, Rose?"

"Sorry!” She laughs, and the tension breaks; the pressure drops. Rose sits back again, head shaking with a grin. “I'm just being weird." She laughs again and reaches: fluffs her hair. “This is about as _muuuch_ as airdrying does for me.” She pushes back from the table. “Is the blowdryer okay to use? I saw one under the sink.”

… uh.

“... uh. Oh, um -- yes, of course. Go for it. Brushes are --”

“ -- in the cabinet, yep, saw those too!”

“Yes.” Pearl blinks as Rose glides out the kitchen, up the staircase. She does not glance back.

The dryer went off over dinner, but the clothes are still warm even after Pearl’s washed the dishes. Sundress, folded. Cardigan too. Pearl’s a little light-headed from the conversation. A glass of water helped. She can… she’ll leave the fresh clothes in the guest room for Rose to use tomorrow. Yes.

The blowdryer is off when Pearl returns upstairs, so she goes to knock on the guestroom door… but the lights are still off. Did Rose only just finish? Pearl doubles back down the hall to the bathroom door. The lights are on, but the door is ajar.

Hm. Pearl knocks, anyway. The door swings open an inch. “Rose?” The light is still on, but nothing is left out. Blowdryer tucked away, towels in the hamper, lotions capped and stowed. But the far door, the one leading from master bathroom to master bedroom, is open.

“... Rose?” A little panic tickles.

Anxiety has been easier to leash over the years. But freak accidents still occur, and freak accidents spring to mind now all delineating multiple different explanations that lead to Pearl finding a corpse in her home. There actually _were_ allergies hitherto unknown and Pearl’s poisoned her -- one of the wineglasses held some trace of arsenic from a rat trap in the 70’s -- a chance malignant microbe in the pipes when she showered -- Pearl swings the door to the bedroom open, “Rose, are you al --”

Rose is fine. She is turned on her side in the enormous bed, downy comforter draped just past her hip, completely naked. Her hair is just slightly damp at the ends, but her curls lay around her shoulders and back in calligraphic tumbles. She looks utterly lush against the sheets. And breezy, and languid, like the bed is her own. Rose hums under her breath as she thumbs through the erotic novel Pearl had stashed on the bedstand.

“I’m okay.” Her smile’s insouciant. “I just got cold again.”

The sundress and cardigan crumple to the floor.

“What… what are you…” Fevered nerves in one fell swoop, from Pearl’s mouth, her throat and chest. Her belly pangs.

Rose laughs, fluttery. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She watches Pearl stare a few moments more before she shrugs, smiling. “You’ve been so sweet to me. And let me clean up, and made me dinner… and you’re giving me a place to stay… so --”

“That doesn’t mean -- how is that --”

Her lips dip. It’s a patient look. “I mean… I _have_ a clue.” Or maybe just pitying. “I can pick up what you’re putting down.”

She looks so _soft._ Any, any part of her, would be perfect to kiss, and Pearl -- covering her own eyes? _Really?_ “-- I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply --”

“It’s really okay.” Gentle. “I don't mind.”

“I _wasn’t._ Rose, you… this isn’t…” Necessary? Wanted? Pearl’s not certain what comes after. She can’t shape words with her mouth full of water.

“Hey,” coaxing, “I’m grateful! And willing. And I’m _sure_ you’ll be nice. You've been a total sweetheart.” Her voice shutters low. Warming as the wine. Her fingertips curl, pull at Pearl. “Come here.”

… Pearl does step closer.

“I know it’s been awhile. That's okay, you can just lie back… or I can lie back? Whatever sounds good." Warm, but unhurried. Nearly businesslike. "Just… mm.” She sits up. The blanket falls to her knees as she reaches for Pearl’s collar, and tugs her a little closer. “Here. I'll help.”

A button pops free beneath her fingers. Pearl flinches like she’s been sparked with buckshot -- she _is_ \-- riddled through the waist with endorphins. It’s been so long. She gasps. Then a second pops: scatter-sticking want, stinging like stars. Pearl is alight. Rose reaches for a third, the gentle round of her nose brushing Pearl's cheek (“Do you like to kiss?”) --

_I don’t like to owe anyone anything._

\-- and it’s like a cloudburst overhead. Like the freezing gust from the open door. Pearl cools by half. But that doesn’t keep her from shaking when she pushes Rose’s hands away. It doesn’t keep her from stumbling back, hip clattering into the dresser.

Rose doesn’t reach across the space for her. She just sinks back to her hip, knees tucked beneath the comforter. Her sweet face pulls long, like she’s asking, _Are you really gonna make this so hard?_

“I-I don’t want to do that to you,” Pearl stammers.

Rose sighs. "Honey… you can’t stop looking at me like you want to eat me.” The tilt of her lips is chiding. But her tone softens again. "And that’s really okay. You’ve been so nice.”

Pearl’s throat sticks. She wets her lips, and looks away.

“Come on.” Rose lies back, careful, framed in the pillows. “Don’t you want…” One thigh inches wide, canopied beneath the comforter.

_I don't like to owe anyone --_

“No. I don’t… no.” Pearl shakes her head. Sharp. “This isn’t what I want.” But that’s not quite true. Not all the way. “... I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

"Because -- because --"

 _Because then you leave,_ Pearl thinks. And thank God does not say. _Because you leave, right after._

She sighs. It’s a helpless sound, a little hurt. A little exhausted. Rose sugar-smiles. Tired but gentle. "Real old-fashioned, huh?” Her head tilts, slow, like she’s trying to work out a muscle cramp. She watches Pearl clench her fists. There are dark lines under her eyes, too. “I don’t... know what to do for you, here. Just tell me what you want.”

_I don't like to owe --_

Pearl swallows. It’s easier, now. "I want you to get a good night's sleep. In here. No, please," her hand goes out. "I'll take the guest room."

That flusters her. Rose nearly sits up again. "Come on, I can't just --"

"That's what I want. You don’t -- I’d --" Resolve bolsters in her chest. Pearl stands tall, and turns. "I’d consider it a favor.” She’s already halfway out the door before it can be countered. “Goodnight, Rose."

She pulls the door shut. But she doesn’t step away. Pearls waits in the hall, watching the strip of gold beneath the door, head pounding, heart pounding, until the light goes out.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Optional listening!!!! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-xUpdO3g44)
> 
> I know absolutely nothing about engineering, if I've made a grievous error and you must shoot me on sight i understand
> 
> (intentionally extremely vague about where this takes place... maybe somewhere around the great lakes?)
> 
> flipping the typical dynamic where Rose has the upperhand to one where Pearl does is really interesting to me, and I'd like to see more of it i think! 
> 
> In infinite possible universes I like to think Rose and Pearl end up happy and grow old together in like... at least 18% of them but in the others it's either Very Sad or they have this weird intense connection with this one person and they think about it off and on for the rest of their lives... which I think might be the case here, but feel free to join me in my glorious mind palace where they go through an intense revelatory period of introspection and catharsis over the course of the next few days and come to an equitable understanding of one another and then engage in awkward but mutually gratifying and emotionally safe sex in the backseat of Rose's crummy Honda, and Pearl pays off all Rose's student loans, and then they both go to therapy


End file.
